


The SAS And The Glam That Goes With It

by Lisbetadair



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 22:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13646121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisbetadair/pseuds/Lisbetadair
Summary: Sam Winters is having an awful day in her new job. The last thing she needs is an embarrassing encounter with a rather dashing mystery man. Who is the enignmatic John Price?





	1. Chapter 1

** Chapter One **

 

Sam was late. It was already a quarter past two and she was still half a mile from the health centre, stuck behind a learner driver who hadn’t quite worked out how the clutch worked. By the fourth red light she was ready to kill something. Mentally, she cursed the circumstances that had lead her to this, a temporary job in the Welsh borders, covering for some happily married bitch who was thirty-six weeks up the duff.

“For the love of Christ!” she yelled, as the learner kangarooed into the junction and then stalled, _again_. It was not going to be her day.

She was running even further behind by the time she arrived and was not surprised to find the car park full. She debated for a second about taking the disabled space and decided it wasn’t worth the hassle: “Midwife In Car Park Scandal” was a headline she could do without. Eventually, after circling the block twice, she pounced on a space that was miraculously Micra- sized. Heaving a sigh of relief, she squeezed the car into the gap and gathered up her things.

Halfway down the street, as she hurried along in a stumbling half-run, she heard a voice.

“Excuse me, miss?”

She ignored it.

“Miss! Your... breasts!”

She stopped, dead. There was only one possible explanation for those words. _Oh God, no!_ She grabbed the bag from her shoulder and looked inside. Bar a huge hole where the seam had burst, it was empty. She turned round.

Scattered on the ground around her were fifteen knitted breasts.

“Bollocks!” she shouted. The day had officially reached its lowest ebb.

“Look like breasts to me.” She looked up at the sound of the voice. Staring back, unperturbed by the bizarre scene, was the most striking man she’d ever seen.

He was tall, taller than she was, with a lithe, wiry body, but the first thing she noticed were his eyes: a deep blue-green, the colour of the ocean, and around them the start of fine lines that betrayed his age. He tilted his head, and the thick moustache surrounding his lips curved into the suggestion of a smile.

 _Hello!_ She thought, and then felt herself starting to blush. Then she remembered that she was late, and her breastfeeding aids were littering the pavement. Hurriedly she crouched to pick them up, scooping them up into the bag. It was as she was standing up again that she remembered the hole, as they brushed against her legs, tumbling onto the ground. She wished the pavement would swallow her whole as she suppressed the urge to scream with frustrated embarrassment. _Why me? Why now?_

The man crouched down and started to gather them up into his arms.

“Oh God!” she said “Really, I’m fine. I just...”

He stood up, cradling the little woollen spheres gently.

“Oh God!” She held her arms out and found herself pressing against him to scoop up her lost cargo. This close she could smell the deep, spicy scent of his aftershave. She felt very odd for a moment, quite light-headed and then they collided, his moustache brushing against her forehead as she stumbled. She felt his strong hands carefully touch her arms to keep her in balance and she thought she would faint from embarrassment.

“Are you okay, miss?” he said, looking worried.

She closed her eyes. His breath was hot on her face and she couldn’t stop the blush racing to her cheeks. _Oh God! Get out of here!_ She thought.

She stuttered, quickly. “Got to go!”  She opened her eyes again and saw him looking at her, quizzically.  She could feel her heart thumping in her chest. “Thankyouverymuch!” she said, as fast as possible, turned round, and ran for it.

 

Breastfeeding Group turned out to be a bit of a damp squib. Only four of the regulars turned up, none of whom had any problems and spent all of their time gossiping and wondering how her predecessor was doing. She was quite glad when the first members of the evening diet class waddled through the doors and she could call the session to a close.

“Sister Winters!” shouted the receptionist as she walked out. “A _gentleman_ called. He left this for you!” She giggled, holding out a rather grubby and battered knitted breast. There was a note pinned to it. _I found this escapee in the gutter. John._

The receptionist was smirking at her, stifling laughter. “Get your tits out for the boys, eh? Maybe I should try it!” she burst into hysterical giggles.

Sam pursed her lips, trying to work out how to explain, but she realised it was no use. Nothing she could say could make things look less bizarre. She stuffed it into her bag and left, clutching at her few remaining shreds of dignity and walked out the door.

 

Later, in the flat, with a very generous glass of wine and a take-away, she found herself thinking about him. She’d always had a bit of a _thing_ for men with moustaches, ever since she was young. When the other girls were gooey eyed over baby-faces like DiCaprio and re-watching Titanic for the seventeeth time, she was day-dreaming about being seduced by Tom Selleck in Three Men And A Baby or cosying up to nude Burt Reynolds in his Cosmo centrefold. Everyone else thought she was crazy. She sighed.

There had been something about him, a sort of _presence_ that she had felt. She thought of his aftershave as she had stumbled into him. _Christ! You’re such an embarrassment!_ The first attractive man she’d run into in months and she had to make a total fool of herself. _Ugh. Pathetic._ She took a deep gulp of wine and flopped back into the welcoming embrace of the sofa. Her head lolled and she noticed her bag on the seat beside her, the lost, stained breast on the top. She pulled it out and fingered the note. _John._ _Well that was really helpful._ She snorted. _He might as well not have bothered._ She turned the breast over in her hand: it was stained beyond repair. She sighed and was about to heave it into the bin when she decided that she would keep the note, a reminder not to act like such a pathetic human being in future.

As she pulled the pin out, she stopped, noticing for the first time that there was another note, slipped between the loops of wool and hidden in the stuffing. She squeezed it out and read it, hungrily. _You’re beautiful. Call me._

Her heart felt like it had stopped, dead in her chest. Trembling, she put the wine down on the table and turned the note over in her hands. On the back there was a number, a perfectly sensible mobile phone number.

 

Author’s note:

Sam’s knitted breasts are a [real thing](http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/england/merseyside/6338819.stm)

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

** Chapter 2 **

****

Sam closed her eyes. She decided that she had overdone the wine, fallen asleep on the sofa and must be dreaming. It was only logical explanation. When she opened them again, she told herself, she would be sitting alone and there would be no note, because it _simply could not be happening_. She counted to ten, slowly and opened her eyes. The note remained, innocently resting on her lap.

Picking it up again, she rubbed the paper between her fingers, feeling the rough edge where it had been torn from a larger piece. Bringing it close to her face, she examined it in detail. It was thin, printed with faint blue lines and looked like every other piece of cheap notepaper she'd ever seen. Guiltily, she sniffed it; disappointingly, it smelt of nothing. Not even a hint of the deep, smoky cologne that had made her head spin. _Oh for God's sake! What kind of man leaves notes sprayed with aftershave?_ She chided herself. _What kind of man slips their number into a knitted breast?_ It _was_ all a bit James Bond-y in a cheap, woollen sort of way.

Her stomach tingled. Cheap and woollen in might be, but it was still the single most exciting thing that had happened in her life for months. A shiver of excitement coursed over her body and she smiled to herself. She had a mysterious admirer. Things were suddenly looking up.

 

 

 

The next day, she went to work as usual. She tried not to think about the number, instead concentrating on the stream of women with their endless barrage of questions about the intricacies of babies both born and unborn, but by the end of the clinic, it was burning her, like an itch she couldn't reach to scratch. Finally, when the last woman had huffed and puffed her swollen belly out of the room, she snapped.

It took less than thirty seconds to type the numbers into her mobile phone, check them, check them again and then she was sitting with her thumb hovering over the button to start the call. She stopped. The room was suddenly very warm and very small. Sam took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. _Easy now. Easy._ She thought. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing, trying to calm the sudden, pounding beat of her heart. _It's just a phone call. Just a call to say..._ Her eyes sprang open. _Christ! What am I going to say?_

Sam pursed her lips; she hadn't thought that far ahead. _Oh brilliant! The first interested man in months and what were you going to do? Breathe down the phone like a pervert because you didn't know what do say? You're such an idiot!_   She couldn't phone up a mysterious admirer and not have something suave and witty to say. She cursed under her breath, damning “John” for the benchmark of mysterious allure that he'd set. The number remained on the screen, mocking her.

“Hi.” she said aloud, to the empty room. “It's me, Sam. The... boob lady.” She groaned. _The boob lady. Brilliant!_

_“_ Hi. It's Sam. The lady with the broken bag?” She imagined what he would say to this. She was trying to remember what his voice sounded like: he'd been English, but not local. She'd been in Hereford for two weeks and her ear was still adjusting to the provincial dialect. It didn't mean anything, because she herself was an interloper to the region, but it still aroused her curiosity about him a little more.

“Okay.” She took another deep breath. “Not sounding like a crazy woman. We can do this.”

She pressed the button.

Not daring to breath, she put the phone to her ear. It took a lifetime to connect and for a moment, she thought it was never going to. She bit her lip, trying to concentrate on being a confident, sensual woman who-

“Hi. This is Captain John Price. I'm sorry I can't answer the phone right now, but please leave me a message and I'll call you back as soon as I can.” There was a long, synthetic beep.

She hung up.

“Bollocks!” she spat. She hadn't been prepared for an answering machine.

_Hang on, Captain John Price? Captain?_ She hadn't been expecting that either. A dim memory surfaced from the start of the week: another midwife from the team talking about the base and the wives and some specific problems that she should look out for. She hadn't really been listening at the time, but now she wished she could remember what had been said. Something about how you wouldn't think to look at them, but... it danced tantalisingly on the edge of her memory, but she just couldn't remember what had been said. For a brief moment, she considered just going into the staff room and asking, but then she'd have to make up a reason for asking that didn't involve potential dates. She didn't think she could stand any more interrogation about her life as the new girl.

_Captain Price._ She felt a little excited flutter in her stomach. It sounded like a name from a Jane Austen novel: the dashing captain of the guard appearing to whisk away the heroine. Now Sam thought back, she remembered the deep green, ribbed sweater he'd been wearing, with the satin patches on the shoulder. She hadn't paid attention at the time, assuming that it must be the in thing to wear this year, but now she thought back it did have a bit of a military vibe. At the same time, he'd had longish, scruffy hair that seemed rather at odds with her idea of what a captain should look like. Her mild curiosity was transformed into a burning desire to know exactly who this mystery man was, and soon.

 

 

 

The afternoon was taken up with the home visits, which she was starting to enjoy. After five years tramping up and down mouldy and dilapidated stairwells, a heavy wrench tucked in her pocket as a defence against the more desperate residents, the lush countryside was a welcome breath of fresh air. Rolling the windows down to fill the car with the sharp, cool breeze she finally felt like she was starting to relax.

She was jolted back into reality by the sound of the phone: sudden, shrill and insistent. Quickly she pulled over, and without even looking at the number, answered it.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hi. I had a missed call from this number.” _Oh my God!_ His voice was exactly as she remembered: deep and intense, almost growling.

“Um... yeah. It's Sam?”

There was a confused silence from the other end of the line.

“Um... you gave me hand with my bag, yesterday?”

“Oh! The boob lady!”

Sam winced. In the background, she heard a tinny voice say “Smooth, John!” and laugh, followed by a muffled “Shut it!”

“Yes.” Sam sighed, wearily. “The boob lady.”

“Sorry. That was very rude of me.”

“Oh no! It's fine!” She said, in what she hoped was a confident, and assured voice.

“I'd like to see you again.” he said.

“Um...” It suddenly felt very warm, even with the window rolled down.

“What would you say to dinner?”

Sam was lost for words.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes! Yes I am! Sorry, phone cutting out.” She flustered. “That would be... great! Um... Thursday?”

“Perfect. How about Massimo's? About 7:30?”

“Great! I'll see you then!”

“Take care.”

“Bye!”

Sam put the phone down very carefully on the seat, put her hands, gently, on the steering wheel and screamed for joy.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 

Arriving home, Sam headed straight to the bedroom where she glared at the contents of the wardrobe, as if, by the power of her gaze alone, something alluring and attractive would leap out at her. She scowled as she flicked through the hangers, finally ending up in the section of slightly dated party dresses that were annually dusted off at Christmastime. Pulling out the best, she held it against her body and regarded herself in the mirror.

In the winter, she would turn thirty, an occasion that she looked forward to about as much as the condemned looked forward to their execution. She did, she admitted to herself, look pretty good, all things considered: she ate well, she ran when her shifts allowed and she had sworn off smoking after being sick at the first drag of a cigarette when she was thirteen. If you looked closely, there were a few straggling grey hairs amongst the blonde, and only the of finest lines on her face. She sighed and tried to convince herself that thirty was only a number, not a terminal diagnosis. Plus, nearly thirty or not, she had a date.

Sam critically appraised the dress, shifting one foot forward and then swapping for the other, trying to splay out the skirt. It suddenly seemed terribly old-fashioned and abysmally dull in its cut and colour. In a flash, she suddenly decided that couldn't turn up to meet the enigmatic Captain Price wearing it, and she would have to find something else. She pursed her lips together seriously and went to get her bag: she was on a mission.

Three hours later, as she pulled up outside the flat again, she was grumpy, hungry and clutching a mass of bags that she hoped contained an outfit that would create the illusion of casual sensuousness and confidence that, in reality, was seriously lacking. In a desperate panic, rushing from shop to shop, she had tried on so many different combinations of dresses, skirts, trousers and fancy tops without success that she felt like screaming in frustration. Finally, she'd settled on a close-fitting, satin dress in black, which had come with what she considered an exorbitant price tag that under other circumstances she wouldn't have been prepared to pay. This behaviour was so unusual that she'd been surprised that she'd been allowed to make any other purchases afterwards; she'd been worried the bank would block her credit on the grounds that her card had clearly been stolen by some fashion conscious thief. Exhausted, she flopped down on the sofa, kicked off her boots and let out a groan that came from the very bottom of her soul.

As she sat there, she started to consider the situation: she had committed Thursday evening, and now a decent proportion of her wage, to having dinner with a man she'd met in the street, about whom she knew a grand total of two things: his name and his phone number. It was so far removed from anything she'd ever done before that she started to wonder if it was real. She glanced at the note, pinned to the side of the fridge with the time and place of the date written in dry-wipe marker in capital letters beside it: it was real.

Waiting for dinner, she sat down at her laptop and tried to find out where (and what) Massimo's was. After this, feeling terribly naughty, she'd plugged Captain Price's name into a search engine only to disappointingly come up with a grand total of nothing. John Price was a common name, and the only Captain John Price she could find any reference to was a plump, elderly councillor in Swindon who was definitely not the man she'd met. It was frustrating, but at the same time, it was slightly exciting: he remained an elusive mystery that she was now determined to get the bottom of.

 

 

 

Wednesday came and went. Suddenly, it was early Thursday evening and she was frantically dusting, polishing and hoovering in preparation for the big event. The horrendous realisation that she _might_ receive an offer to walk home and that she still hadn't actually unpacked since her arrival had dawned together on the way home from work. As many unopened boxes as possible had been tucked under the bed, on top of the wardrobe and, in desperation, shoved into the car boot to give the appearance of a sparse, yet tidy, domestic scene. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, dressed in her underwear and rubber gloves, her hair matted with clumps of dust and immediately panicked.

An hour later she was finally scrubbed, polished and plucked into a state that she considered presentable. Sam had twisted her hair up into an elegant french braid that she hope gave her an air of mature sophistication, and hid the fact she was excited like a pubescent girl hoping for her first kiss. She had been trying to not to think about him, about the whole mystery date prospect because the end result was an emotional roller-coaster of anticipation, fear of looking like an idiot and then feeling like an idiot for worrying about the date in the first place; however, despite her best efforts, her stomach was tingling. _It doesn't happen every day, might as well enjoy it._ She thought.

 

 

Sam had decided to arrive on time and if he wasn't there, settle down with a cocktail. Massimo's was a well-known bar and restaurant at the edge of the town centre, and, her research had discovered that it was owned by a minor celebrity chef that she'd never heard of: Sam was a member of the school of cooking whose chief skills were stabbing plastic and punching numbers into a microwave. It was also expensive, and she was thankful that next week was payday.

Standing outside, she checked her watch for the fifth time in as many minutes, before telling herself to grow up and get inside before her hair got ruined. Trying desperately to calm the fluttering in her stomach, she took a deep breath, tossed her hair back and confidently pushed open the door.

Seated in the corner of the bar, nonchalantly sipping at his drink, he was waiting for her.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 

He was distracted as she entered, reading something on his mobile phone. He spun it deftly in his fingers, slid it back inside his jacket and picked up his glass of beer. Price looked even better than she remembered: elegant in a sharp, dark suit with the shirt open at the collar. His hair had been cut: where before it had skimmed his eyebrows, it was now sleek and short, with just enough length to show the rough curl.

“John!” Her view was suddenly blocked. A woman had appeared, striding across the bar. “ _So_ good to see you!”

Sam froze. She was still partly hidden by the entrance amongst the coats and he hadn't seen her yet.

The woman was tall and lithe with dark hair that was styled into an intricate, twisted chignon. She appeared to be draped in burgundy velvet that sheared away at her shoulders to expose the bare skin of her back, skimming the edge of her hips in what Sam considered an obscene fashion. She glided purposefully towards him, and he rose to greet her, clasping her hand and leaning forward to kiss her cheek. Confused, Sam attempted to dive back into the doorway only to be hit square on the bottom by the opening door.

“Sorry, love!” said a voice behind her as she tripped and stumbled into the room, catching her heel on the edge of the carpet rail and grabbing the coats for support. “Whoa!” he said, catching her arm and grabbing the coat stand before it toppled, the coats swinging alarmingly round, forcing the occupants of the nearby tables to duck and weave away from the flying sleeves. She closed her eyes, mortified. _Oh God! Please don't him have been watching!_ She pushed herself upright and took a deep breath, trying to appear unruffled. She grunted and twisted her shoe free.

“I'm fine. Thank you.” she said, shaking herself free of his grasp. “No harm done.” She could feel the embarrassed flush rising in her face.

“Excuse me.” She jumped at the sound of a familiar voice, feeling a hand graze the small of her back to get her attention. Price had appeared at her elbow. Turning to face him she could see that the moustache had been trimmed too, into a neat arc above his lip that bowed as he smiled, shyly at her. Her stomach somersaulted and suddenly the entranceway seemed very small. He looked up at the man who'd pushed her. “You appear to have my date.”

“What?” said the man, bewildered, and then his face blossomed into a grin. “Oh!” he laughed, a dry, booming sound that filled the air around him. “And you appear to have my wife. You old dog! Excuse me.” He slid past Sam and went to the woman in the velvet dress, taking her in his arms and kissing her, salaciously, on the lips. The woman giggled as they parted, but their foreheads remained pressed together, a gesture so intimate that Sam felt she should avert her eyes.

“Gaz. Vivianne.” He addressed the man and woman with curt nods. “Sam” he nodded at her.

“Sorry for stepping on you.” said Gaz. He let go of his wife and shook Sam's hand so hard it hard.

“Gorge dress! And it's Viv, really!” said Vivianne. Her words were steeped in a distinct, upper class drawl that seemed incongruous compared to the harsh, cockney tones of her husband. “Sorry he stepped on you. He's not so bad _really_.” she laughed.

“Special occasion?” said Price.

“Anniversary.” Gaz replied as he slid his arm around Vivianne and pulled her into a close embrace. She giggled.

“I know!” she rolled her eyes. “Look, we shouldn't intrude. Anyway, darling, the table's ready. So lovely to meet you!” The last remark was directed at Sam, at whom she waved as they sauntered into the restaurant.

“Friends?” said Sam

“Work.” said Price, gruffly. “Gaz. Not Vivianne.”

Sam laughed. “Not _quite_ the army type?”

“No. Definitely not” said Price, frowning. She was struck by the palpable bitterness in his tone, then his face softened. “I think our table's ready.”

 

 

 

 

Sam racked her brains for something witty to say. She'd ordered a white wine spritzer, which was a compromise after deciding that a treble gin and tonic _might_ make her feel a lot less nervous but would probably turn her into a simpering idiot. She was beginning to regret that decision as she fumbled for a conversation starter.

“You're not from here?” she asked, nervously fingering the cutlery.

“Neither are you.”

“No.  Actually I just moved here, I'm doing maternity cover.”

“Funny. You don't think of midwives having babies of their own.” he mused.

She laughed and it came out as a high-pitched, squeaking giggle. She winced at the sound. “I suppose not. I've done it all my life. I've never really thought about it.”

“We did it for a week, learning about how to deliver babies. Never had to use it.”

“ _Really?_ ” said Sam. “I would have thought you'd be all... bullet wounds and blown off legs.” She cursed herself. _I can't believe you just said “blown-off legs!”_ She grimaced at her lack of social grace.

“Yeah, we did that too, but you never know.” Price rolled his almost empty glass around on its bottom edge, staring at its contents like a clairvoyant looking for the future.

“Gosh.”

She thought about this for a moment, and a thought struck her.

“What is it you do?” she asked.

“I'm in the SAS.” he replied. He looked at her expectantly, a thin smile on his lips.

Her expression displayed more cynical disbelief than she realised.

“You're going to say _“prove it”_ aren't you?” said Price.

“Well...” She fumbled for the right words. “It's just that-”

“Look.” He pulled out a white plastic card and passed it across the table. “They don't say which bit you work in, but do you think Army captains go round pretending to be in regiments they're not part of? Getting caught would be embarrassing, and this is a small town.”

Suddenly the forgotten conversation on her first day came flooding back to her. _You wouldn't think to look at them, sauntering round the town. Frankly, I think they're all bloody mentalists! Give me the creeps._

Sam moved the card, highlighting the holographic stamp in the candlelight. In the photograph he was younger, with a full beard and a scruffier version of the haircut she'd seen him wearing a few days ago. _John Richard Price._ She looked at the date of birth and did a quick bit of mental arithmetic: he was younger than he looked.

She blinked, and dropped back into reality. “Sorry. There's something I meant to say, or not meant to say, isn't there?”

“What?”

“Well, when I say I'm a midwife, people usually regale me with some terrible story about the birth of their child, usually implying there was some incompetence involved on the part of the poor girl involved. I thought you probably had an equivalent. I mean, those are the guys, or rather _you're_ the  guys that-”

“Yes.”

“And do all that-”

“ _Yes_ ”

“You don't even know what I was going to say! I was going to say “Do all that lovely... crochet”.”

“Our crochet is _fabulous_.” said Price.

They both laughed.

 

 

 

Another glass of wine eased Sam's social anxiety further, but there was an itch at the back of her mind that she couldn't scratch. Sam was old enough to remember the nineties and somewhere between her recollections of training bras and Pop Tarts ubiquitous special forces autobiographies that had erupted, black covered, into the shops. _What had happened again?_ She asked herself. She had a vague memory of her mother talking about wallpaper and _was it the Libyan embassy?_ She couldn't remember. It was an entire subculture that had risen, burned bright and died without her really noticing, and that intrigued her.

She picked through the remains of her main course, trying to come to some sort of middle ground between choking on a fish bone versus picking the bones out, but still somehow having some actual fish left to eat that wasn't effectively puréed by her efforts.

“What's wrong?” he asked, dabbing gently at the edge of his mouth with the napkin.

“Oh, nothing. It's lovely! I was just, thinking to myself.”

He had been reserved, letting her talk about herself, her upbringing and her mad desire to get some fresh air that had led her several hundred miles to the Welsh borders, all the while seeming genuinely interested. She was flattered; although she still knew practically nothing about him. She had to admit there was a certain frisson about Price, and his involvement in a national obsession only added fuel to the fire. _Was there some scandal?_ She wished she'd paid more attention.

Sam looked at him anew. He'd taken off the jacket, and had rolled the sleeves of his shirt up around his elbows. The louche, casual look seemed rebellious in the expensive, carefully styled surroundings of the restaurant.  He was wiry; she knew he'd be strong. She could see it in the sinew of his exposed forearms and there was a bulk in his shoulders under the fabric of the shirt that betrayed hidden strength. She flashed, briefly, onto an image of him half-undressed, imagining the broad space of his chest, and the covering of course hair, just now peaking up between the depths of his open collar. She thought of running her hand across it and completely forgot what was happening in the real world: she put her elbow in the sauce boat.

Inwardly panicking, she frantically began to wipe at her arm with her napkin, hoping he hadn't noticed. _Get a grip!_

“You know, I've told you my whole life story, practically, and I still don't know anything about you.” she said, blushing nervously.

“Well...” He trailed off.

“Where were you born?” she asked, picking a bone out of her mouth in what she hoped was a genteel fashion and lining it up with the others decorating the edge of the plate.

“Stratford.” he replied.

“What made you want to join the Army?”

He shrugged. “What made you want to be a midwife?”

“Oh no!” she waggled her finger at him. “This is about you, mystery man.”

“Mystery man?” He raised his eyebrows.

“I thought calling you “Man I Found In The Street” was less... attractive?”

“Attractive?”

“You're stalling.”

“I'm am not!”

Sam snorted derisively into her wineglass. “So tell me!” she said, giggling.

He smiled at her and opened his mouth to say something, but she never found out what it was, because the beeping started.


	5. Chapter 5

** Chapter 5 **

****

“I don't _believe_ this!” growled Price. He unclipped a small, grey box from his belt and looked askance at it.

“Is that a pager?” asked Sam.

“Yes. Excuse me a moment.” Price pushed his chair back and slid out from the table, heading towards the door. Sam twisted in her seat to watch him go, and then turned back when she heard the  beeping again. Gaz was walking towards her, striding through the aisle between the tables. He saw her watching and gave her a thin smile as he walked past.

She stared after him, turning to watch him push open the door and go to Price, who was pacing along the pavement, his phone pressed to his ear. He nodded at Gaz, pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and signed something to him that Sam couldn't understand. Gaz waited, his back to her, with his hands pressed into his pockets.

Sam noticed other diners were looking at her. Blushing, she spun back round in her seat and tried to look less conspicuous. _What the devil's going on?_ She wondered, frowning. She picked up her fork and poked the remains of the fish again. _Why's he got a pager?_ Attempting to look coolly unconcerned about her abandonment, she picked up her wineglass and took a small sip before slowly turning back round to face the door, clinging to the back of the chair for balance with what she hoped was an air of indifferent nonchalance.

Outside, Price slipped the phone back into his jacket. He and Gaz exchanged a few words and then both of them headed back inside. Gaz continued past her, giving her a curt nod, but Price disappeared into the bar. _Okay. We're not worried. There's probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for this,_ Sam thought _._ He reappeared again and returned to the table.

“What's going on?” she asked, bewildered. She could see people on the other tables looking at them again, pointedly passing judgement with their eyes.

“I'm am _so_ sorry.” he said. “I really need to go.”

“What's happening?” asked Sam, confused.

“I have no idea.” he said. “Hopefully nothing. I'll call you when I get back. You are... very charming.”

“Sir?” The waiter had appeared at Price's elbow, proffering a card reader.

“I'll get this one.” he said. The waiter handed him back his card and he slid it into his wallet.

They stood facing each other for a few seconds, in awkward silence. His gaze scanned her face with such intensity she felt suddenly shy. She looked down at his open collar, blushing. The sounds of the diners around them seemed to fade into muffled, distant static. Sam felt drawn to him, pulled by an invisible force that crackled along her arms and down her spine. She found her eyes inexorably  returning to his face and their gazes locked once more. He tilted his head towards her.

“Sorry about this!” Gaz reappeared suddenly at Price's elbow “Car'll be at the end of the street in a few minutes. Nice to meet you.” He nodded at Sam.

“I'll call you.” Price said, brusquely. “Goodbye.”

The moment unravelled. Sam was left, jilted, at the table.

For a few moments, she stood frozen. _What the hell just happpened?_ She thought.

“How bloody awful!”

Sam spun round to face the source of the upper-class drawl and found Vivianne behind her, standing with her hand on her cocked hip, her face twisted into a wry, cynical smirk.

“What's going on?” asked Sam, confused.

Vivianne slumped into Price's empty seat and slapped a glass of red wine onto the table. “Christ only knows. How well was the date going?”

“Um...” Sam was shocked at the forwardness of the question. “Fairly... well.” she said, eventually.

“It's probably not a drill then.” Vivianne swallowed half of the wine in one fell swoop. “Excuse me, could you be a darling and bring me the rest of this from my table?” Sam realised she was waylaying a passing waiter. Sam slid back onto her chair. She wasn't sure of the etiquette of abandonment and subsequent hijacking of a dinner date. “He did settle your bill?” Vivianne whipped back round to face Sam with a snakelike snap of her neck.

“Um. Yes.” she said.

“Oh! Fab! Gaz is such a cynic, he said to ask. You wouldn't think they'd been friends since, like, forever.” She rolled her eyes. “Thank you so much.” Sam realised the last comment was directed to the waiter again who was refilling Vivianne's glass.

“What the _hell_ is going on?” Sam finally found her voice in amongst the confusion.

Vivianne's eyes narrowed. “He _did_ tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“What he does for a living?”

“Well, yes.” Sam thought about it for a moment. Things started to slot into place “I am... _aware_ of what the SAS do! I just... thought they happened to other people.”

Vivianne snorted with laughter.

“I mean...” Sam continued. “John,” It gave her a thrill to say his name. “With a...”

“Heckler and Koch MP5?”

Sam stared at her, completely at to loss as to what she was talking about.

“It's a type of gun. I'm not that interested, it's like a sort of _osmosis_.” She gestured at her head and took another gulp of wine. “But yes. Exactly. They're on-call if anything happens that might need their services.” She suddenly smiled, the smug smile of someone who's just found a juicy secret. “You _like_ him!” She fluttered her eyelids.

Sam bit her lip, feeling suddenly pressured. She puffed out her chest, pulling all the pride and dignity she had in her together “It's none of your business” She said, primly.

“Sorry!” said Vivianne. “That was rather bold of me. _Mea culpa._ ” She held up her hands, palms open towards Sam. They sat in silence for a moment whilst Sam sipped her spritzer. “So... you're new in town.” Vivianne enquired.

“Yes.” said Sam.

“I know it's dreadful having to move somewhere new, I remember moving here and knowing no one. Plus having your date ruined by terrorists. Maximus hideousness!”

Sam sighed. “Right on both counts.” She thought for a second “Does it happen often?”

“No. Just bad luck this time, I'm afraid.”

She worked out what had been bothering her for the duration of the conversation “Aren't you worried?” she asked.

Vivianne twisted the wineglass around by its stem. “I try not to think about it too much. _Que sera, sera_ and all that jazz.” She flapped her hands. “It's too depressing if you start moping about it. You get used to it.” She looked wistful for a second and then shook her head “Let's not get into that, it's your first date! Too much!”

“What do you know about John?” Sam asked, suddenly. The words crossing her lips before she could stop herself.

“Oh! Whoa! Not getting involved!”

“I just... don't know anything about him. Is he always so secretive.”

Vivianne seemed thoughtful for a few moments. She traced her middle finger along the top of her glass, following the edge of the rim. “John... he takes his time before he trusts people.”

“Why?” Sam narrowed her eyes, sensing there was more to this statement than Vivianne was letting on.

“That's just the way he is.” Vivianne shrugged.

“Mm-hm?” Sam raised her eyebrows, she knew when she wasn't been told the truth.

“Mm-hm!” Vivianne replied. “Your date is with John, not me. This is just an impromptu jilted sisterhood fuelled by wine and the contents of the dessert trolley.”

Sam had to laugh. “I shouldn't put you in that position. It's not fair. But it is very nice of you checking that I'm okay.”

“Well, I remember when I came here. I didn't know anybody. I just came for Gaz.”

Sam's curiosity got the better of her. “You and Gaz....”

“Oh. How did I end up with him?”

“Well... not so bluntly.”

“It's fine.” She rolled her eyes. “Everyone always wonders. We are the human personification of Lady and the Tramp, without the adorable meatball scene.” She poured herself another glass of wine and tipped a generous portion into Sam's glass. She took a deep breath, like she was telling the saga of the birth of the world “Clapham. 2001. Local sixth form college. Chef has enough, takes canteen hostage. You recall?”

“Oh God! I remember that. Didn't he kill himself.”

“Eventually. Not before half of Las Lineas Sterlingas was camping out on the common. I was at art college, living in a squat -dire times, needs must etcetera- and there were all these men hanging about with balaclavas on.” She saw Sam's expression. “Oh God! It's not like I've got a weird _thing_ for that, we were just cat-calling them from the window and there were few journos about and we'd smoked everything we had in case we got raided and it _seemed_ like a great idea at the time... so I flashed him.”

Sam choked on her wine. “What?”

“I know! I was young. You do stupid things.”

“Oh my God!” Sam laughed. “So you got married?”

“Not _right away_. Eventually.”

“That's quite... romantic.” observed Sam.

“What? Girl shows tits to soldier?” Vivianne looked incredulous. “That famous Mills and Boon classic!” She laughed.

“It worked out in the end.”

“True.” said Vivianne, wistfully. She emptied the last of the wine bottle into her glass and swirled it round “How did you meet John then?”

“Well... a remarkably similar story...”

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

** Chapter 6 **

 

Sam didn't want to be cooped up inside the labour ward, but she couldn't avoid the shifts. It was worse that the place was dead, everyone pointedly waiting for the single patient to deliver, one way or another. Sam had been left to answer the phones, but enquires had been few and far between. In the dark countryside around them, the women of Hereford were gestating quietly, minding their own business. In the early hours of the morning, she joined the other midwives huddled in the staff room, the television turned to signed repeats of daytime fodder, and started to pick through her lunch.

She was worried about Price, holed up in London. As Vivianne had warned her was likely, she'd heard nothing for the last three days. She was quite grateful on day one, because Vivianne was an infectious drinker and somehow they'd ended up three bottles of wine deep between them by the time the restaurant closed. She might have drowned her sorrows and formed a new friendship, but she'd spent the next day paying for it, lying on the sofa like a beached whale until the headache finally abated and she went to work.

For the following two days she'd been glued to the rolling news channel when she had any free time, watching its frequent returns to the besieged building with ever growing concern. She squinted at the blurred figures at the edge of the cordon, trying to make out the familiar shapes of Price or Gaz. She really wanted to call Vivianne for advice, but imagined she'd probably have her own worries. _Or not._ Sam didn't really understand her fatalistic stoicism, and she knew there was no chance of her emulating it.

_Is this what it will be like?_ She thought. _A life of watching, waiting? Never knowing the truth?_ She shook herself. _You've not even been on a single complete date with the man yet!_ She poked her baked potato angrily. _What is wrong with you?_

“Here. Anyone know what's happening with this thing in London?” Sam was jolted out of her thoughts by a sharp Northern voice. It was Ella, who had wandered through from the ward to join them. She picked up the remote control and started to flick through the channels.

“Oh, I don't know, love. I don't watch the news these days. All bloody misery.” said Laura. The sister was curled up in an armchair like a nesting hen, flicked through a gossip magazine as she spoke.

“Anyone heard anything?” said Ella, looking around. Sam gave her what she hoped was a nonchalant shrug. Ella stopped at the news channel, but there was nothing about the siege: a young Asian man was giving a report on the state of the Eastern stock markets, against a backdrop of skyscrapers blinking in the sunlight.

“Why?” asked Laura, her soft, Welsh lilt drawing out the single word.

“Just interested.” replied Ella “Everyone's talking about it.”

“You're not shagging one of them, are you?” asked Laura, with raised eyebrows.

“What?!” Ella shook her head, laughing incredulously “Listen to her!”

“Thought maybe you'd got yourself a toy soldier!” Laura giggled.

“Give over! At my age?”

“Aye. That's what it says in here.” She tapped her magazine with a pointed finger, stabbing it into the page. “What do you call them? Cougars! Keep you fit anyway.” They both laughed, and then Laura said “Here, Sue'll know. Sue!”

Sam looked up, interested to know why Sue was suddenly the font of all knowledge.

“What?” Sue looked round at the sound of her name. Sam eyed her, critically. The middle-aged auxiliary was small, rotund and wearing full make up despite the nightshift. She was not the sort of person Sam would have pigeon-holed as a military expert.

“What's going on with that thing in London?”

“Why should I know?”

“Isn't that what your neighbour does?”

“Oh, John?” Sue replied. Sam froze. A prickling started at the back of her neck. She told herself not to be stupid. It was a common name. “He's not my neighbour. He lives across the street. I've not seen him for a few days, mind.”

“Maybe that's why, eh? Maybe he's getting ready to dive in through the window with a machine gun?” Ella laughed, miming aiming a rifle at Laura.

“Aye.” Sue sighed. “I just can't picture it, though.” She shook her head. “He's not a big guy. Wiry like.” Sam could feel her face starting to burn. _I bet the base is teaming with wiry Johns, and-_

“Is this that bloke that lives next to you?” More faces were looking up from their food now, interested in the conversation. Sam hunched over her potato, pointedly trying to not look like she was paying attention. She pulled out her phone and pretended to read something from its screen.

“Is he the one whose wife arrested in A&E, didn't tell anyone she was pregnant?”

“ _What?_ ” exclaimed Sam, without thinking. The fork tumbled from her hand and clattered onto the floor.

“Oh aye.” said Sue. “This was back oh, seven? Eight years ago, must be. Well before your time.” She waved at Sam and the younger midwives “Because it was when that Scottish doctor, remember him Angie? With the big ginger moustache and the specs?” She looked wistful for a second and stirred her tea “We got this screaming phone call from casualty, and big Julie (she's retired now) and him went hammering down there to get this baby out. Didn't make it. Terrible sad.” She shook her head.  “And of course, he'd been away for a year and half.”

“So it wasn't even his baby?” said Ella, aghast.

“No. That was the worst bit! She'd not told anyone. Well you wouldn't, would you? They didn't realise she was even pregnant until she was at the hospital. Awful mess, and it was all in the local paper that she'd died and it got out that she was pregnant. Terrible shame.” Sue shook her head and tutted.

“My God! What did she die of?”

“Big pulmonary embolism.” said Laura, matter-of-factly “It was in the report.”

“Bloody hell!” Ella whistled. “I've never had a maternal death.” She stroked the coffee table “Touch wood.”

“Aye, well. We don't want any excitement like that tonight, thanks very much!” interrupted Laura.

“Oh Christ! Can you imagine? You and me sprinting down to A&E?” They both hooted with laughter.

The conversation turned to campfire emergency stories, and Sam tuned them out. She was frozen to the seat, clutching her phone like a lifeline, staring at the empty screen. _It might not be the same John._ She told herself, and then Vivianne's words came back to her: _John... He takes his time before he trusts people._

She _had_ to know. _Now._

 

 

“I can't believe you didn't tell me!” exclaimed Sam.

“On your first date?” Vivianne looked incredulous. “Because a) I knew you'd react like this and b) it's none of my business.”

“She was _pregnant_ , and I'm a _midwife_!” exclaimed Sam. “That doesn't make me feel good.” She'd trawled through six months of the archived Hereford Times before she found the headline. It had made her feel sick.

“He _knows_ that, and it clearly doesn't bother him.” She pressed the strainer of the cafetiere down and poured Sam a coffee.

They were in Vivianne's studio, a converted office above the gallery. Sam was collapsed in a worn and torn leather armchair, which was draped with a old crocheted blanket. Around her the work surfaces were covered with pots of paint, jam jars filled with brushes and several home-made printing frames.

In the day, Vivianne was a completely different person. Her long hair was formed into two plaits and twisted over head like a band. She wore an old tartan shirt and scruffy, flared jeans, an ensemble which made her look like she was a refugee from a hippie commune. Everything was stained with paint.

“I'm sorry, but I didn't think it was any business of mine to interfere. It's his story.”

“A 'heads up' would have been nice!”

“And you got one! So now you can react with faux surprise, decorum and whatever the hell else you want.” Vivianne handed her a chipped mug of coffee. “Look, John and I... have our differences. If I'd told you, it would have only made things worse.”

Sam sighed. “I'm sorry. I'm really tired. It's just all... so much, so quickly. I mean, we went on half a date! How can it be so complicated!” Sam flopped back in the chair with a groan.

“You do like him, don't you?” said Vivianne, pointedly looking at Sam over the rim of her coffee cup.

“Yes.” Sam sighed “And for what time I had, it was good.”

“Well then, don't worry about it. Have a good time, and if it works out then fab! 'Who Dares Wins' and all that.” She giggled at her own joke.

“It's not funny!” snapped Sam. “Christ! I can't even imagine it. Coming home to find your wife dead and then that she was a...”

“No good, lying whore?”

“Oh, don't!”

“Not my words.” said Vivianne.

“God!” Sam put her head in her hands and rubbed her temples with her fingertips “Is he really bitter?”

“Look.” Vivianne put down her coffee mug “He's dating again, and he likes you. It doesn't matter what happened with Harriet!” She pursed her lips. “Well. Okay. So it's made him a bit guarded, I'll admit.”

“Did you know her?”

“Before my time.”

“I just feel like it's pressure.” said Sam. “Like there's something expected of me, but I don't know what it is.”

Vivianne sighed “Are you planning on cheating on him?”

“What?!”exclaimed Sam “Of course not!”

“Well, then I don't think you've got anything to worry about. He obviously likes you. Just enjoy yourself, and tell me _all about it_ afterwards.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

** Chapter 7 **

****

Sam had plenty to think about, but she tried to ignore it. She tried to focus on the everyday tasks of her own life, but the siege was hot gossip: in the papers, on the news, in the overheard conversations in the supermarket. Sam couldn't avoid it, no matter how hard she tried. 

She didn't follow politics closely, but the instability in Russia had been insidiously creeping into news bulletins for the last twelve months. Sam had been born at the tail end of the Cold War, growing out of the long, dark shadow of The Bomb that had gripped her parents with fear, but she still regarded the Russians as Other, the people who had been crouched behind the Berlin Wall, ready to invade and steal the cornflakes. Now there were Russians in London, holding up a refugee centre and Sam didn't really understand why.

To keep her occupied, she had her work, and at least she could focus on getting to know her colleagues. Friday brought a retiral party for someone that Sam had never even met, but she was invited anyway and for a few hours the laughter, dancing and general chatter took her mind away from her worries.

On Saturday morning she woke late, unable to remember what she'd been dreaming about, but feeling ill at ease. She pulled herself out of bed and stretched, feeling the muscles of her back complaining. There had been dancing, _lots_ of dancing. At some point, after the pub had closed, the hardcore stragglers, which had included herself, piled into a nightclub and she had been dragged to the dancefloor. She had fuzzy memories of the pounding music and flashing lights. Gingerly, she pulled down a lock of hair, sniffed it and winced. She smelt like she'd sweated vodka.

After a shower she felt more like a normal human being. As the kettle boiled she made the same, solemn vow she'd made a week earlier when she'd woken from Vivianne's abandonment heart-to-heart: she would never touch alcohol again. She rummaged in the drawer for some paracetamol and then poured herself some orange juice. As she knocked back the tablets it occurred to her that she should find out what was going on the world and switched on the radio.

Ten seconds later, the glass shattered on the floor.

 

 

 

Sam sat, slumped, on the sofa, feeling like she'd been kicked in the chest.

_Four dead, including a member of the rescue team..._

She'd muted the television, but she continued to stare at it anyway.

_A daring raid by British special forces... four dead..._

She felt sick.

The television was showing footage of the raid, with smoke billowing from the doors of the refugee centre, and a body lying on the pavement outside. She switched it off, quickly. If Price had died, she didn't want to watch.

_Oh, God!_ She thought, her stomach churning. _It could be him: dead._ Stunned, she stared at the empty coffee table in front of her. Suddenly, she remember her phone. _Surely someone would let me know?_ She wondered, but there were no message and no missed calls. She realised that even though he'd never been far from her mind in the last few days, she barely knew him really and where on the list of priorities would be phoning a girl who'd been on half a date with him? _Surely Vivianne would tell me?_ And then she realised with a jolt: _what if it's Gaz?_

Sam bit her lip. She felt awful not knowing. She wanted to phone Vivianne, but if her husband had just been killed, she wouldn't want to hear from some pining friend wondering about her date from last week. She thought about Gaz, to whom she'd said approximately four words and who'd manage to slap her on the bottom with a door. She remembered looking away when he'd held Vivianne, pressing their foreheads together and then kissing her like they were a pair of teenagers in love. Six years together, ripped apart. It made Sam's heart ache. She swallowed, trying to suppress the lump developing in her throat.

“I can't take this any more.” she said, to the empty room. She made a decision: she went out.

 

 

 

It was the evening before she found out the truth. She had gone out walking, something she'd wanted to do since she arrived in Hereford, but hadn't had the chance. The man at the tourist information office had looked slightly taken aback when she'd appeared, with her wet hair and strained expression, demanding to go for a walk. Despite this, he'd been forthcoming and she'd headed out to Woolhope to try and lose herself in the countryside. It had worked, because her aching legs consumed her thoughts and the only thing she wanted now was a warm bath.

She switched on the laptop as the bath filled. It was the lead story: _the death of decorated war hero Donald Lamont._

Sam felt relief wash over her, briefly, and then she felt rather hollow. It didn't feel right, or make her feel better. She stared at the portrait that accompanied the story: Donnie Lamont had been a handsome man in a very generic, chiselled way. If she'd seen him in the supermarket, she might have assumed he was a sports teacher who had drunk too much with the rugby team in his youth. The rest of the article told her he had a wife, and two children. Reading this made her feel more uncomfortable, and guilty. She switched off the machine and headed into the bathroom.

_Oh, God_. She thought, sighing as she slipped into the welcoming embrace of the warm water.  _How did this happen to me?_

She was twenty-nine years, seven months and four days old. She had lived in Hereford for exactly four weeks, and her life was entirely unrecognisable from what it had been before. Previously, it had been ordinary: she'd cruised from brief relationship to brief relationship with men who ranged from mind-numbingly dull through to utter bastard, courtesy of the combined match-making skills of her various settled friends. _Ordinary and boring,_ she reminded herself. It had always felt like there was something missing, some spark, some _passion_.

And then along came Captain John Price: mysterious rescuer of knitted breasts, leaver of notes,  secretive defender of the realm... She felt her stomach flutter at the memory of him in the restaurant, sleek and elegant in his suit, his wiry body concealed beneath. She recalled the firm grim of his hands on her arms as she'd trembled on the street, flushed and nervous. It sent a tingle down her spine. He _was_ attractive, and she _did_ like him.

She pressed her hand to her face, absent-mindedly chewing at her thumbnail. Previously, she'd just assumed that the siege would sort itself out. She that imagined that he would phone her to rearrange their date and she would figure out what the hell she was supposed to do about the Harriet problem. She hadn't considered him not coming back, but now she understood the risk that Vivianne ran, the tightrope along which she and her husband walked, hand in hand. _How many times has his fate hung in the balance?_ She wondered. _And_ _when it happens again? And the time after that?_ The nervous excitement faded, replaced by slick of fear.

She admitted that his mysterious nature had been part of the _frisson_ , not being able to know him instantly intrigued her, but now she knew the cost it came at. She suddenly flashed into the future, putting herself in the place of a heroine she'd seen in a war film once, holding a telegram she couldn't bring herself to open. _That could be me._ She thought. She bit her lip.

To and fro she went, from one side of the argument to the other, unable to reach any sort of meaningful conclusion _._ Her thoughts swung from the crackling she'd felt across her skin when she'd stood close to him, then over to the awful worry she'd felt just that morning, the cold brush of terror on her heart when she'd thought he was dead. It made her head spin.

_“Bollocks!”_ She swore, aloud, her voice echoing in the bathroom. She sat up, the water sloshing alarmingly around her. She didn't know what to do and she was going round in circles, getting nowhere.

 

 

 

Dried off and swaddled in her dressing gown, she thought about making dinner, but she wasn't hungry, not really. She looked at the bottle of wine in the rack and was tempted, but decided against.  She was contemplating the chocolate when the phone rang, shrill and insistent in the quiet of the flat. She picked it up, looked at the caller and her stomach plummeted: _John Price_.

 Her heart quickened in her chest. She held the phone, feeling it quiver against her palm as it called to her. she could feel the thumping pulse in her throat, sicked with a sudden fear as she stood paralysed by its plaintive noise. It rang and _rang_ and she was frozen with indecision, rooted to the spot.

 Eventually, the ringing stopped.


	8. Chapter 8

 

** Chapter 8 **

           

Sam watched the screen of her phone change to tell her that she had missed a call with a feeling of terrible sadness. She sat down slowly on the kitchen chair, her heart heavy in her chest and put her face into her hands. She exhaled: a deep sigh from the very depths of her soul. Her heart wanted her to answer, but her rational head held her back as the memories of the anxious hours that she had passed that day looped over and over in her mind.

 He called again in the next afternoon: twice. She'd been in the clinic, so she couldn't have answered, but she was still left with the agonising decision about whether or not to call him back. She looked at the phone for a long time before she decided to switch it off, and then was struck suddenly that this was the very room she had sat in when she had called him two weeks ago. _Hi, it's Sam. The boob lady..._ She couldn't help but smile at the memory of her nervous excitement. She looked at the phone for a few minutes and then put in back in her bag.

 

 

 

All evening it plagued her and that night, as she lay in her bed, watching the headlights of the cars outside play across the ceiling. She knew, and she felt she'd known really, deep-down in her heart all along, that she just couldn't help herself. If she let him go, it was back to putting her fate in the matching algorithms of dating websites and her increasingly desperate friends. She couldn't bear the thought. For years she had put her faith in logic and chosen the safest path, but she could see now where it led: into the sucking quagmire of dullness.

John Price had made her feel alive again, had made her fur crackle and her heart flutter. She had felt, for the first time, a passionate fire in her soul. She knew that she had to call him back, she had to see him again, or she would never forgive herself.

She looked at the clock: it was midnight. _Tomorrow morning. I'll call him tomorrow morning._

It transpired that tomorrow had other ideas.

 

 

 

 It had started off perfectly. Just as she'd been finished breakfast, the midwife on call from the night before had phoned her: a woman thought she might be in labour, and wanted to deliver at home: could Sam head out and see what the situation was?

Sam had seen the woman's name in the diary: healthy, with a third baby on board and a previous successful home birth. A perfect candidate to deliver in her own home, which turned out to be a sprawling farm in the distant reaches of the district. Sam had a good feeling: unpacking her kit from the boot of the car in the weak morning sun, the sound of the cows lowing in the distant fields, hens curiously pecking around the car. She felt like this was what she had been waiting for since she had arrived in Hereford: the simple life.

Now, as she lost her footing and slammed into the side of the ambulance, the sirens blaring over her head, she realised just how wrong she had been.

The delivery itself had been everything Sam had hoped for. She'd phoned her buddy to head out, but she'd know that it was pointless given the distance involved. It turned out the woman was pretty well advanced into her labour. With some real heart and soul in the pushing one pink and health boy was born into the world shortly after she'd made the call. Ten minutes later, as the blood poured forth, and Sam tugged fruitlessly at the cord, the dream crumbled around her.

The ambulance swerved again, and Sam braced this time.

"Any joy?" said the paramedic. The name stitched into his overalls was "Steve". There had been no time for introductions.

Sam shook her head. She pressed down hard against the woman's belly, bracing against her continued efforts to deliver the afterbirth, but it wouldn't budge. A fist sized lump of clot erupted onto the ever increasing pool of blood on the sheets, and the woman groaned.

Steve pursed his lips and twisted the bag of saline he was holding, forcing the liquid down through the line into the woman's arm. Behind him, an alarm sounded from one of the monitors, sounding out the worsening situation, and Sam felt the growing knot of despair start to build.

 

 

 

 

It felt like the whole hospital had come to meet them. Laura, the sister whom Sam had met on her night-shift, was first to the door of the ambulance to receive Sam's breathless account of events, closely followed by a gaggle of new faces, all with expressions of mounting panic.

Sam had to sprint to keep up. She had been left to carry the baby, still in its makeshift cardboard crib, behind the carnival dashing pell-mell through the corridors. By the time they slammed into the recovery room, she was gasping for breath. She watched the team continue on through into the theatre, and suddenly she was alone. Unsure, she just stood for a few moments, completely at a loss, listening to the crashing and shouting from the theatre next door.

A noise was intruding. Her phone was ringing and reflexively, she answered.

"Hi. Um...midwife on call." She stammered, as she tried to get her bearings.

"Sam?"

_Oh God. No._ The deep voice was instantly recognisable, vibrating through her brain. Sam's felt the blood suddenly rush to her legs. She steadied herself on the edge of the bed.

"Hello?"

"J-John?" Sam felt sick.

Behind her she could hear the sound of alarms. A figure darted through the doors at the edge of her vision and scurried through the doors into the theatre. She had just time to see the bags of blood the woman held in her hands.

"I tried to call you." Price said, sounding irritated.

Sam caught her breath "Um... Yeah, sorry." She tried to concentrate on what he was was saying, but she was in such a panic that she couldn't focus at all.

There was a stony silence on the other end of the line, and she realised that Price had finished speaking without her even noticing.

"Um... I was going to call you back."

"Just come as soon as you can, she's bleeding like stink." Sam turned to see Laura storm through the doors into recovery and out into the labour ward. Just as the doors swung shut behind her, they slammed open again as she came back towing the emergency trolley with the defibrillator on the top. Sam watched, horrified. _Shit!_ _That's not good._

The awkward silence on the line remained. She tried to think what she wanted to say to him, but she just couldn't. Her mind was back in the ambulance, watching the numbers on the monitors go from bad to worse. She looked down at her feet, shod in a pair of canvas tennis shoes that had been white when she put them on that morning. They were bloodied beyond repair and she was horrified to see a trail of red footprints to where she was turning in circles as she attempted to talk to Price.

"Look... this is a really bad time." She said, looking round frantically for something to clean the floor.

"You don't need to make excuses." He snapped.

"What?"Sam stopped, shocked The tone of his voice grabbed her attention.

"If you don't want to speak to me. It's _fine_."

Sam felt a sudden surge of irritation. "Look. I'm at work" she said, her voice sharp. "And things-"

Price snorted bitterly "Whatever."

Sam's jaw clenched. She really didn't want to be having this conversation. "This is _not_ the time!" She snapped, and then stopped herself, hearing the sharp note in her voice. "Look... I just wanted to think for a bit. It's not that-"

"About what?"

Sam growled. She couldn't get a word in edgeways. She took a deep breath "Well, it's been-"

"Is this about Harriet?" said Price, suddenly.

It took Sam a minute to place the name through the chaos of her thoughts "What? No!"

"Vivianne told you, didn't she?"

 "No, she didn't." Sam could feel herself starting to rankle. She pursed her lips.

"Then how do you know what I was talking about?"

Sam breathed through gritted teeth, exasperated. _How did I get into this mess?_ She tried to find the best way to explain, but the words just wouldn't come together.

"That bitch!"Sam started when he said it, spitting the word with venom. For a moment, she was too shocked to speak.

Sam stopped at the sink, and looked at herself in the mirror. There was a smear of blood running across her forehead and into her hair was flying in all directions. She could hear Price ranting in the background, but she was back in the ambulance, watching a young mother slowly turn ashen and cold as she bled out in front of her. She pushed a bloody lock of hair back. The theatre door swung open, filling the room with voices and alarms. Sam pressed her finger into her ear to try to hear Price, as she paced back and forth across the room.

"Vivianne _didn't_ tell me!" she argued.

"Don't lie to me!" Yelled Price.

Sam cracked.

"Don't you _bloody dare_ accuse me of lying to you!" Sam shrieked, her voice shrill and furious. It echoed in the empty room. There was sudden silence on the other end of the line. All the emotions she'd been holding back suddenly flooded over her, melding with the adrenaline still pumping through her system with nowhere to go. _How dare he!_ "If you _really_ want to know: your neighbour, _Susan_ , brought it up in the staffroom! Not Vivianne!" She could hear the tremble coming through in her voice and she realised that she was shaking. She caught her breath and continued "And despite it coming as a bit of a shock, the reason I didn't pick up the phone is because I just spent the last week worrying, then a day thinking that you might be dead and all together, I just wondered whether or not it was worth all the hassle." She tried to hold together, but her voice cracked. "So thank you, for helping me figure that out!"

Sam didn't wait to hear what Price said. She was livid, shaking and covered with blood. She'd never felt so angry, so mistreated, in her whole life. She lashed out, dashing her phone against the wall and watched it shatter as it hit the floor.

Exhausted, ashamed and furious, she flopped heavily into a chair and wept.

 

"Oh my God!" shrieked Vivianne. "What _happened_?"

"Well, we had a _bit_ of an emergency." said Laura, in soft, motherly tone "Confidentiality and all, but mum's in intensive care."

 "Your mum?" asked Vivianne. She looked at Sam, a confused frown distorting her features.

"No! The mother of the baby she was delivering!" Laura looked at Vivianne like she was an idiot and tutted. "It was quite stressful, _completely_ _unexpected_ ," She squeezed Sam's hand and smiled at her "But it's under control. I just didn't think she should drive herself home."

"Oh my God!" said Vivianne again. "You poor thing!" She sat down next to Sam and put her arm around her.

"I'll be fine, honestly." Sam said, embarrassed. She didn't like to make a fuss and she knew that she looked like a complete wreck. The consultant had found her weeping in the recovery room, trying to comfort the now wailing baby and quietly arranged for her to be ushered into the staff room. Someone had pressed a cup of tea into her hand and asked if she had anyone who could come and pick her up. Vivianne was the only person she could think of.

She waited until Laura left before she told her. "John called." she said.

"What?" said Vivianne and then "Oh. What happened?"

"It did _not_ go well."

"Why? Gaz-" she stopped suddenly. Sam looked at her, her eyes narrowing.

"Gaz what?"

"Oh, nothing." Vivianne looked away. Sam knew she was hiding something.

"Well he was _wrong_." Sam muttered, darkly. "He phoned when we just got back here. Literally, just into theatre. I tried to tell him I was busy, but..." She shook her head"I _just_ wanted time to think about things." She snapped. Vivianne jumped back. "Is that so wrong? Look. I know it doesn't seem to bother _you_ much, but I _was_ really worried about him and then I thought he might be dead for a whole day. I just thought: _is this what I want_?"

"Oh." said Vivianne. "And is it?"

"Up until thirty minutes ago, I was prepared to give it a shot." said Sam, derisively.

"And then what happened?"

Sam sighed. "He thought I hadn't answered because I'd been freaked out about Harriet, and then he went off on one because he thought you'd told me and when I said you hadn't." She waved her hands in front of her, gesturing for emphasis "And then he called me a liar.".

"Ah." said Vivianne. She pursed her lips, looking disappointed.

"After that, there was so much going on: all the noise from the theatre and blood everywhere and when I called me liar I just... exploded. I mean, there's no call for that. I know you're going to say he's all weird about it, because of reasons, but... urgh!" She threw up her hands in despair.

"Yes." Vivianne sighed. She was silent for a few moments, thinking, then she said "You know, I think that's awful, but... perhaps he just wasn't expect you to be so _practical_ about it?"

"Oh thanks!" said Sam, insulted.

"Sorry! Bad habit. You don't want my advice right now." She pointed tapped her collarbone. "Shoulder for crying only."

Sam looked askance at her. "What do you mean by _practical_?"

"Well... You didn't rush into making the wrong choice. And you obviously care about him."

Sam snorted.

"I just think that when you've had something terrible happen, and you phone up this nice girl you've started seeing, and she doesn't pick up the phone, perhaps the first conclusion you jump to _isn't_ that she paralysed with concern for your wellbeing."

"Oh." snapped Sam. "So now it's _my_ fault?"

"No! I think you did what was right by you, and he should have listened instead of jumping to conclusions, but maybe..." She gestured with open hands and then dropped them onto her lap. "Maybe it's all a bit... complicated." She fiddled with her watch for a bit and then said "I mean... Donnie was a nice guy. _Really_ nice. And in a small... _family_ as it were, that's tough." She looked away. "Gaz doesn't like to talk about it, he just went and sat in the shed, so I know _he's_ really upset and it was John's... thing, in charge of rescuing those people. You know?"

Sam listened to her. In her misgivings, she hadn't thought about Price's situation. She felt a sudden pang of guilt.

"With all that going on, I think he's put two and two together and ended up with four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie, and you... You just got caught in the flames." She picked at her thumbnail.

"Well it's not _my_ fault!" snapped Sam, defensively. She didn't want to admit it, because she was still sore, but there was an itch of guilt at the back of her mind.

"I know. I know." Vivianne agreed. She gave Sam's shoulder a squeeze.

"It's done with now anyway." said Sam.

"Just... give it time. You'll calm down, he'll calm down. You'll feel different."

"I don't think so." said Sam, shaking her head. "I really don't."

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

** Chapter 9 **

****

Sam parked the car outside the health centre on Thursday evening without incident this time, but filled with aching nostalgia. She picked up her bags and noticed that a single knitted breast had rolled into the footwell of the passenger side. She picked it up and held it thoughtfully for a second, thinking about what might have been. Her new phone, with the old number transferred, had been by her side constantly, but the call never came and as time passed, her longing began to sour. _Well I'm not grovelling to him._ She thought. _If he wants to be bitter: fine._ She stuffed it into her bag and slammed the car door shut with a definite sense of finality in the action.

 The next day, Vivianne called and pussy-footed around the conversation until she finally asked if Sam had heard from Price. When Sam said she hadn't, there was an awkward silence.

Vivianne sighed and then said “Well. Are you doing anything tomorrow evening?”

Sam thought for a minute. She had bought a pizza and a tub of luxury ice cream, quietly hoping she could fill the wound in her heart through the one in her stomach, but she wasn't going to admit to it. “Oh... nothing much.”

“Fantastic!” she replied. “I'm having a thing at the gallery, it's a sale of the stuff I did in the Spring. There'll be eligible _bachelors_!” She trilled, in a sing-song voice.

“I really don't think-”

“Please? You don't have to buy anything, _and_   I could do with having someone just to give me a _tiny_ hand.” She pined. “Marianne that does the shop has called in sick and everyone else is really busy-”

Sam sighed. She owed Vivianne. “All _right_. I'll be there.”

 

 

****

The next night Sam arrived at the gallery late and slightly breathless. The evening was stiflingly hot as she walked along the narrow streets, which had been left cobbled by someone who presumably hated stiletto heels.  Not even the slightest breath of wind penetrated the stagnant, humid air between the ancient buildings. By the time she pushed open the door, she was sweating.

It was already filling up. The saleroom thronged with people of all shapes and sizes, milling around, gazing at the pictures, poking the ornaments and trying on the jewellery. Sam was surprised to find that the work was beautiful, and then she felt slightly guilty for presuming that they would be anything else. Vivianne had a unique style that rendered the landscape an almost fantastical quality. Sam recognised landmarks, land that she had seen with her own eyes, but seeing it how Vivianne saw it was something else entirely. She stopped aside a painting no bigger than an A4 sheet of paper: a magnificent stormy sky over the hills, wrought in shades of blue and grey. She turned the price tag over and her eyes widened. _Perhaps I could get a print?_ She thought, biting her lip.

“Thank you so much for coming!” exclaimed Vivianne, appearing out of the crowd at Sam's elbow. Sam jumped. “Darling!” she wrapped one arm around her, the other keeping a glass of wine out of harm's way. Sam felt like she was being smothered to death as Vivianne planted a noisy kiss on her cheek.

Despite the heat, Vivianne appeared to be draped in cream silk. The fabric wrapped around her and then plunged away so that she was a ghost in satin. Unlike Sam, who could feel her makeup's resistance to gravity weakening, she looked fresh and elegant.

“ _So_ many people to introduce you to!” she said, spinning Sam round to face the room and then added in a conspiratorial whisper “Rhys Jones-Curtis, _huge_ tracts of land.” she nodded her head to a man in his early thirties, wearing a polo club shirt and chinos who was admiring a painting on the far wall. “Trying not to make it too obviously matchy-matchy, so going to deposit you in line of sight and make introductions later if he hasn't already taken the bait.”

“I-”

Vivianne didn't notice her protest. She merely spun her round again and pushed her in the direction of a pair of couples, standing around in the corner. “This is Marsha, Flicks, Hugh and Jasper. Everyone, this is Sam.”

“Hello.” said Sam, shyly.

“Join me at the till in a bit!” Vivianne whispered in her ear and then, like a gamine vampire, she glided away into the crowd.

The group chorused a greeting. The two men were dressed almost identically: dark suits with the jackets and ties long discarded in the heat, the collars of the shirts open and the sleeves rolled up. Jasper shook Sam's hand firmly and smiled at her. She felt his eyes graze her body like he was undressing her. She shuddered. He was overweight, his pot belly rolling over the top of his trousers, and his wavy hair was already lank with sweat.

Hugh on the other hand was tall, and slim. It looked like Jasper had sucked all the moisture from him. There was an elegant designer watch on his wrist, which would have cost Sam six month's salary,  He had his arm wrapped around the arm of the waif-like Marsha who, judging by the display on her fingers, was his wife. She shook Sam's hand with a limp, insipid grip and simpered a greeting.

“Some bloody heat tonight!” said Hugh.

“I _know_!” his wife rolled her eyes. Sam was impressed, she didn't know you could fit that many vowels into such a small phrase. Marsha made Vivianne sound common.

“Thank God Viv's got some air-con! I was out of the car for five minutes and sweating like horse!” said Hugh “ _So_ glad to be out of London!” He turned to Jasper. “Drive up okay, Jas?”

“Fine. Took the new Jag. Beautiful on the open road!” Jasper kissed the tips of his fingers in a continental gesture of appreciation. Sam found his nonchalant confession of wealth made her uncomfortable. She shifted her weight anxiously from foot to foot. She was beginning to feel out of her depth.

“Hello, darling.” Sam turned round at the sound of a familiar gruff voice. Gaz stood behind her, proffering a silver tray filled with narrow, fluted glasses. “Sparkling wine for the lady?” he winked.

“Thank you.” she said, taking one and smiling politely. She felt awkward talking to him, but he merely grinned at her and then sloped away to accost a couple on the other side of the room.

There was an awkward silence.

Marsha spoke first. “Do you think he killed any of them?” she asked Hugh.

“What?” exclaimed Sam.

“The _siege_!” Marsha whispered, _sotto voce_.

“Oh don't let's talk about that.” Flicks rolled her eyes. “It's _awful_.”

“Bloody mess” said Jasper, loudly “Whole building full of bloody, _foreign_ scroungers. Shouldn't be here in the bloody first place.” Sam immediately had a strong desire to punch him. She had to fight to suppress it. Everyone but Sam chorused agreement, nodding along to Jasper's xenophobic diatribe as if it was gospel. It make Sam feel ill.

She took a deep breath and let it out very slowly “I should... see if Vivianne needs a hand.” she muttered and beat a hasty retreat.

 

 

 

“God they're awful!”

Vivianne rolled her eyes. “Aren't they?”

Sam found Vivianne behind the counter, carefully wrapping a clay pot that was glazed in an eye-watering mix of colours. She had waited until the customer was out of earshot before replying.

“How do you know them?” asked Sam.

“The women are in here a lot. _Nouveau riche_ types. Jasper's sold his media consultancy for silly  money and built this _monstrosity_ of a house out of town. Sometimes see him on the shoots, where he is _bloody awful_. Fortunately they're desperate for some sort of cultural validation and I have some art to sell.” She nudged Sam conspiratorially. “It's almost too easy.” She smiled and picked a celery stick from a platter laid out on the shop counter.

Sam laughed. The sparkling wine was stronger than she thought, or she was just dehydrated from the heat outside, but her head felt fuzzy already.

“Oh! These are nice.” She picked up a small, metal statue of an otter, lying on its shoulders as if it was tumbling through the water. It was heavier than it looked. “How much are they?”

“Two thousand pounds.” said Vivianne, nonchalantly.

“What?” exclaimed Sam. She put it down hurriedly.

“It's _bronze_. I'm hoping it might catch the eye of _that lot_.” She nodded back to the group Sam had left. “Commission's at twenty-five percent, _see?_ ” She chewed thoughtfully on the celery for a moment and then made a noise like she'd just remembered something important. “Would you be a _darling_ and mind the counter for a minute?”

Sam nodded. She stroked her hand over the cold metal of the sculpture thoughtfully. It was beautiful, and it seemed a shame that it would end up as an unloved trophy. She sighed and took her place behind the counter before she was lost in a daydream where she had enough money to buy it. For a few moments she stood awkwardly, smiling at the people who wandered close and caught her eye. She saw the promised Rhys, who slid past the counter without even glancing at her. She felt slightly insulted.

Looking around for something to do whilst she waited, she spotted a mirror for sale beside her and was horrified to see that the sweat had indeed done for her eye shadow.  She looked like a panda. _Oh my God!_ She grabbed a piece of tissue to try and salvage what she could but it was no use, everything seemed to be slipping southwards in the heat. She groaned. She really wished she hadn't come.

A noise intruded, the bell of the shop door tinkling above the sound of the chatter in the room to signal a new arrival. Sam glanced over and froze, her heart seeming to stop dead in her chest.

Price was standing in the doorway.

 

Reflexively, Sam ducked. She dived down beneath the till and pressed herself into the space beneath. Between the fabric that had been draped across to hide the desk legs, she carefully peered out. He hadn't seen her. He nodded to a couple standing by the door and then wandered to the nearest wall, apparently engrossed in one of Vivianne's landscapes. She swallowed, her throat suddenly very dry. _Oh God!_ She thought. _Ohgodohgodoh_ -

“What in God's name are you doing?”

Sam jumped at the sound, banging her head on the desk above her. She winced and twisted round, snagging her tights on the carpet. “I thought you said John wouldn't be here!” She hissed, trying to free herself from the tangle.

Vivianne looked at her, a confused frown on her face and then she looked up. Her jaw dropped, clearly horrified. “Quick!” She held open the curtain into the back of the shop and Sam dived through.

“You said he wouldn't be here!” Sam repeated, indignantly, as she climbed to her feet. The tights appeared to have survived unscathed, for which she was grateful. She dusted herself down.

“Well... he doesn't really like me, or my work and I didn't invite him!” said Vivianne, as Sam stood up. She brushed some fluff from her dress and frowned. She had a suspicion she was being got at.

“No. I did.”

Vivianne and Sam both jerked round simultaneously. Gaz was standing at the worktop, facing away from them and hunched over something on the surface in front of him. He hefted the knife he was holding at the hilt and threw it up in the air. It somersaulted round and he caught it again by the handle. “Whay-hey!” he said, clearly pleased with himself.

“You _what?_ ” said Vivianne, incredulously.

“ _Well_ , I want to have someone to talk to whilst you're hobnobbing with your fancy customers. Here, what do you think?” He spun round, holding out a watermelon. Most of the skin had been cut away on the top half and the flesh carved into an intricate pattern of petals so that it looked like a rose.

“Oh Gaz! It's _gorgeous_.” Vivianne gushed, and then shook her head “Wait! Don't you change the subject!” she snapped.

“Well you didn't say I couldn't invite him.”

Vivianne scowled.

“Did you say I couldn't invite him?” Gaz held up his hands.

“ _No_.” Vivianne fumed, her hands clenching into fists by her sides. Sam wanted to step back. She looked like she was going to explode.

“Well then.” Gaz placed the carved melon in the centre of a large glass bowl and started to pour ice around it, ignoring the audible grinding of Vivianne's teeth. “Oh, your friend Flicka was looking at them otters earlier. I think she likes them.”

“Oh my God, really?” Vivianne flew through the curtain into the shop. Seconds later her face suddenly reappeared through the gap at the side. “This isn't over.” she hissed at Gaz before vanishing again.  “Flicks! _Darling!”_ Sam closed eyes listening to her honeyed tones receding into the noise of the crowd. She wasn't sure if it was the wine, or the heat, but she didn't feel well at all.

Gaz looked up at her, grinning wildly. “She's really _sexy_ when she's angry about something.” He winked at her, this time with a distinctly lusty edge that made Sam feel distinctly uncomfortable.  “Sausage-on-a-stick?” he said, proffering a plate.

Sam groaned. She picked up a half-empty wine bottle and pushed past him.

“I need some fresh air.” she said.

 

 

 

Authors Note: The otter sculptures are by Laurence Broderick. They now sell for significantly more than £2000.


	10. Chapter 10

 

** Chapter 10 **

****

Outside, there was a distinct chill as the sun set. A breeze was stirring the litter in the back alley gently, sending paper and wrappers skittering along the cobbles and raising gooseflesh on her bare arms. Sam set her glass and the bottle on the windowsill and perched herself on top of the bins, hidden in the ivy that coated the back of the gallery building. Above her, the setting sun painted the sky in vivid hues, lighting up the patchy clouds in shades of lilac, pink and gold. It was truly magnificent, and for a moment, Sam forgot all about her troubles. She sighed and closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the cool stone. 

Part of her felt like carrying on out of the back of the gallery and sneaking off down the alley, a solution that conveniently avoided having to speak to Price, or Gaz, who for some reason, seemed to be determined to make her life miserable. _Why did he invite Price?_ She opened her eyes and her brow furrowed as she thought. _Perhaps he's trying to tell you that you're not welcome?_ She groaned. She had thought that he liked her.

Sam knocked back her wine and poured herself another. She stared down the narrow, fluted glass, watching the bubbles rise and sparkle across the surface. _Bollocks._ She thought. She wasn't ready for this yet. She wasn't even sure if she was ever going to be ready for it, but if she had been, this wouldn't be what she wanted. She _had_ wanted to see Price, but not like this. She hadn't wanted to bump into him wearing make-up that not even a well-meaning liar would call gothic, and veering slowly from tipsy into drunk.

As she considered her situation, a fat ginger tomcat detached itself from the shadow of the yard opposite and slunk across the cobbles towards her. It ducked into the crevice between the bins and the wall and, with a clatter, leapt onto the bin beside her. Settling onto its haunches, it mewed.

“Hello, puss!” She said.

The cat looked at her like it was waiting for something.

“I've only got wine!” She laughed and tickled its ears. It stretched its neck back, sniffing at her hand. She smiled. Its fur was warm and soft under her fingers. She scratched its back, smoothing the fur, and stroking along its tail.

The door to the shop creaked open and Sam jumped. The cat leapt from the bins and darted towards the noise, jumping over her legs in a single bound. Sam followed it to where it stopped, at a foot leaning out into the doorstep, the body still in the kitchen. She looked at the brown brogue and followed the slim leg up as the person stepped out into the yard. Her heart leapt into her throat: it was Price.

Sam froze. He was looking at the cat, who had seated himself expectantly beside the doorstep. It stared back at him and mewed plaintively, a noise that Sam knew was deliberately constructed for maximal feline gain. Price stared at it for a few moments, and then he crouched down with a grunt, dangling one of Gaz's miniature sausages, still impaled on a cocktail stick, in front of its nose.

He hadn't noticed Sam and she wasn't sure what she should do. She wondered if she should say  something, but anxious fear held her paralysed. Perhaps he might go away if she kept quiet, or go back inside for another nibble and then she could make a run for it? She bit her lip, considering her options. _Bollocks!_

The cat grabbed the sausage and Price laughed under his breath. Sam looked at his face as he was distracted.  He had the same strong profile, dominated by his Roman nose. The moustache had evolved into a full, neatly-trimmed beard that flowed into his sleek, short hair. She thought this looked even better. A small knot of excitement tightened in her belly and then she was cross with herself for being so pathetic.

She watched  as he stroked along the cat's back, rubbing the fur underneath his hand. The other hand rested on his bent leg, and she noticed with a start the bandage over his wrist. _Had he hurt himself in the siege?_ She felt guilty, she hadn't even considered this possibility and feelings of concern for him overrode the prickly remains of her anger at his words.

Stiffly, like he was in pain, he sat down on the doorstep. He rested his jacket across his knees and pulled out a slim silver case. Opening it, he tipped a thin cigar into his hand and then replaced the case into his jacket. He was still looking at the cat as he cut off the tip and bent his head to light it, the glow of the lighter casting an orange flare on his face. She watched him lean back against the door frame as he inhaled and closed his eyes.

Sam shifted back, a flush of shame rising. She felt like a voyeur.  He sagged against the doorframe, his eyes still closed, like he was asleep. There was something intimate about watching him when he thought there was no one else there, innocently resting. She was slightly ashamed of the tiny flutter she felt as she stared at him, thinking that this would be what he would look like if he was sleeping beside her. Despite the coolness in the shadowed yard, she felt her face flushing. 

It was too late to announce her presence without it being awkward. She bit her lip. _How long did it take to smoke a cigar?_ She craned round again, trying to see if he was any more likely to leave and then the bin lid shifted under her weight, knocking her off balance and making an ugly clanging noise. Price's head jerked up and he saw her for the first time.

“Jesus!” he exclaimed.

They stared at each other for a few seconds.

“Why are you hiding in the bins?” asked Price, eventually.

Sam felt angry embarrassment flooding over her. Her face burned. “I wasn't _hiding_.” said Sam “I was just... _sitting_.” She looked away, mortified. This wasn't how it had worked out in her head: a scenario that had involved a mature but informal reconciliation in the hours of daylight, possibly  with coffee. Bins had not featured largely in it.

She thought about what she had wanted to say. It had been a lot easier in her head, when he wasn't actually _there,_ looking at her with an expression of boyish surprise on his face. He _was_ handsome, and now that he was staring at her with his piercing pale eyes, she felt the tingle of gooseflesh rise on her arms.  She stared at her feet for a few seconds, not sure what to do.

“I shouldn't have called you a liar.” He said, matter-of-factly.

“No.” said Sam, slightly taken aback by this sudden, honest admission. Her train of thought derailed.

There was an awkward silence. There were so many things that she wanted to say and none of them seemed right.

“I should apologise.”

“Yes.” said Sam. The phrase came out a lot more brusquely than she had anticipated and she bit her lip. “It's all right.” she said, more softly. “I know we both under a lot of strain. I'm... I'm sorry about Donnie.”

Price looked at her, his expression tinged with sadness and cocked his head to one side, as if he was considering this statement.

“I was telling the truth, on the phone, about why I didn't answer your call. It's not about... Harriet.” She hated saying the name out loud. “I mean, not that it didn't come as a bit of shock, but I appreciate why you didn't want to tell me right away. I mean, we barely know each other.”

Price rolled the cigar in his fingers ruefully and let her continue.

“I had to think for a bit.” she said. It was hard to find the words for what she was trying to say. Everything seemed awkward. What was the right way to tell him that she liked the way he made her feel without sounding like a mad woman? “I mean... I had a good time... with you and...”

“Did you really worry about me?” he cut her off.

“Yes. Yes I did. Quite a lot actually, I suppose.”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “I really blew it then, didn't I?” He took a long drag on his cigar and breathed a long plume of smoke into the air. Sam could smell the sweet smell of the tobacco from where she stood at the other side of the doorway.

He stood up, pushing against the wood of the doorframe for support. He stubbed the cigar out against the brick and flicked the stub into the weeds by his feet. “Did you mean what you said on the phone?” he asked. “That you weren't going to worry any more?” His gazed flickered across her face.

Sam pursed her lips, embarrassed at the memory of her breakdown in the recovery room “I was angry, and  there was a lot going on. Maybe... I would have liked to mean it at the time.”

“I wanted to call you.” said Price, suddenly.  “But it didn't seem right, and I was worried you wouldn't answer, and that you meant what you said. I only came to _this_ -” he nodded back towards the gallery door, his tone implying his general indifference to Vivianne's show “-because Gaz said Viv had asked you to come.”

_I will kill Gaz._ Thought Sam, closing her eyes.  _I will take that bloody melon and I will-_

 “I just thought the worst, and things kind of snowballed...” He looked down at his feet, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the cobbles like he was nervous.  He walked forward as he spoke until he was just a few feet from Sam. She watched him pitifully try to stuff his hands into his pockets only to discover that his bandaged wrist wouldn't fit. He let it drop forlornly by his side.

“Look.” he said “I like you.” he said.“You're sweet. You worry.” he trailed off. “You're very... beautiful.” he said, suddenly and then looked away, as if he was embarrassed.

Sam blushed, and looked away. _Oh, for heaven's sake! Get a grip!_ She thought.

He was standing directly in front of Sam and his presence caused the fluttering in her stomach to reach an almost painful intensity. She breathed out very slowly, and looked up at his face. The shock of looking into his eyes this close crackled over her skin. They stared at each other, his pale eyes burning her face with his steady hunter's gaze.

Sam felt dizzy. The air seemed charged between them as he looked deep into her eyes. The spicy scent of his cologne, and the sweet smell of the cigar filled her lungs as she breathed. Her head throbbed. She could feel a tremendous sense of pressure pushing her forward. Her body didn't feel like her own any more as she stumbled towards him, swaying slightly.

He reached out to her, and touched her arm with his good hand, steadying her. She felt his rough fingertips stroke her skin, sweeping over her shoulder and trailing over her neck to hold her face in his hand. She shivered under his touch, a rush flooding through her body. They were standing close now, close enough that she could feel his breath on the skin of her face.

She looked up at him, raising her face towards his. She could hear his breathing quickening as he bent his head to her. The world seemed to slow down around her as he paused, the skin of their foreheads barely touching. Sam closed her eyes, and then he kissed her.

 

 

 

 

**The End**

 

Author's Note: This story was originally published on FF.net in 2012, and I had a lot of fun writing. I'm currently working on the sequel, so any constructive criticism of this has the potential to improve that do and is entirely welcome. 


End file.
